Satisfaction
by EternallyImperfect
Summary: It was his greatest trick yet. The world believed him dead – Helheim, probably – and here he occupied the throne he had coveted ever since it had become clear that the world would deny it to him. And how tired Loki felt. Post-TDW.


It was his greatest trick yet. The world believed him dead – Helheim, probably – and here he occupied the throne he had coveted ever since it had become clear that the world would deny it to him. Sif and the Warriors Three knelt before him in deferential respect that jarred sharply with the memory of the disdain and contempt that they had always offered him, that they would offer him now if they knew. The Asgard that despised him as a traitor and war criminal was in his hands, his plaything, a mouse caught in a trap.

And how tired Loki felt. He had thought himself brilliant when the beginnings of his scheme wheeled into motion, adrenaline and emotion propelling him forward. Escape at all costs, had been the idea. It was true that he had wanted to avenge Frigga's death, and he had paid that debt, had he not, when he killed Kurse? After that he knew he needed to escape Thor if he wanted to forge a future for himself outside of a white, sterile prison cell. Loki shuddered at the thought of his cell, left colder and more punishing now that she would never return. He plugged down the thought "You killed her" just as it began.

Thor. Thor had cried as Loki carried out his act of dying. Part of Loki was surprised at how genuine it had seemed. Did you mourn? We all did, he had said, and recalling the thought, Loki bit his lip to stop the laughter from bubbling out. Loki was a master of lies; he knew a lie when he heard one. What a fool Thor must have thought him to think he would believe a lie as incredible as that. But Thor had cried when Loki was dying, cried as he had never seen him do in all the centuries they had known each other. What a fool Thor was.

His mind restlessly replayed scenes and refused to focus on the plans that he was trying to make as king of Asgard. Loki needed to rest, he realized. The magic he had used to fake his death, together with the illusion he had planned with Thor for Malekith, the excitement of the whole affair, had been a greater exertion of his strength and energy than he had anticipated. Now he was exhausted, yet still maintaining the constant illusion of his guise as Odin. Besides that, attending to the kingly duties and the rebuilding of Asgard that as Odin he was expected to do had left little time to recuperate.

Surprisingly, he hated sitting in the throne. It brought him flashbacks of his first time here. Even now, the glory of the throne belied the actual experience of it. And he could not forget the familiar image of Odin, upright and unshakeable in the throne, and standing beside him: Frigga, tall, comforting, stable. As he turned his head, Loki almost imagined he would see her there, another audience to this grand farce he was playing out. His chest stiffened with a sensation he would not acknowledge when he recognized the empty space where he stared. Loki closed his eyes. His head throbbed.

At night he could rarely sleep. One night in the darkest hour, possessed with restlessness, he sat up and in the light of the fireplace he went to look long at Gungnir in his hands. The orange glow of flame made it glint in his eye. His hands felt cold and clammy against the smooth metallic surface. He felt cold in the warmth of the room, like the chill emanated more from his core than from anywhere else.

He remembered how it had ended the last time he wielded Gungnir, remembered falling through empty spaces until it seemed that the void was a part of him rather than around him. He could end it now, with the formidable power Gungnir held, give the world the death it desired of the monster, give himself the respite denied in life. When he had said satisfaction was not in his nature, he had imagined then that it meant he would keep striving forever for it, but tonight, it occurred to him that perhaps if it would never come to him, it would be better to cease trying.

Loki came slowly but suddenly to the realization that his body was shaking with exhaustion. His thoughts scattered like a flock of birds frightened and fluttering. Gungnir lay heavy in his lap.

"My son."

He turned with a start to see Frigga standing before him, the fireplace behind her illuminating the edges of the golden hair that framed her face.

"I failed you," Loki said, "I'm not your son."

He thought of Kurse, and Malekith. He had been lying to himself. Malekith was really the one responsible for Frigga's death; Kurse was only a minion. Loki had left Thor to defeat Malekith on his own because he wanted power and freedom instead. Loki had never avenged Frigga.

"I have never given up hope on you. I waited for you to come home."

I don't have it, Loki wanted to say, but his throat felt thick and his jaw tight. Slightly dizzy, he almost felt like he might fall, but then anger welled up like a faithful and sure ally, and he felt grounded again.

"Lies. I was only ever a tool for you and Odin to manipulate for your own _purposes_." He laid stress on the word.

"You shaped me into this. You lied to me. I never _knew_ myself," he said, a note of agitation creeping into his tone. "I never had a choice!"

(You brought the monster.)

"Loki," she said softly. Her sharp blue eyes met his, troubled but quiet, as if she understood something that he did not.

Almost similar to the last time she had gazed at him. He stared a moment, lost in the memory. He was quieter when he began again.

"Perhaps that is a reason why I can be perceptive of everyone but myself. Rather hard, wouldn't it be, to see myself through the lies?"

With rising spite, he continued, "Perhaps after all you had use for me yet. Why you would want me to return. Why you took precious time to visit a pathetic Jotun prisoner each day. Tell me, what might that be. What is my worth this time?"

"No, Loki," he heard in a voice that sounded hollow and strangely distant, and when he stared hard, he found his eyes blinded by the firelight. He was alone.

Breathing hard, he pulled his focus together, and swore to keep his mind alert. Moments of such weakness could not be allowed. The night passed, long and quiet.

###################################################

Several weeks elapsed since Thor had left him on the throne. His steps weighed heavily on the polished floors. The familiar and wide expansion of the palace halls inspired claustrophobia in him. Lacking the heart to bear with the inevitable tedium, Loki had recklessly called off an important meeting with the representatives of another realm, not caring that his decision had disturbed a number of people and set off perhaps a few alarms.

He tried to imagine what might happen if he were to walk these grounds as himself rather than as Odin, if he could only shake off this pretense without relinquishing the power and regard. As he turned a corner, he was picturing himself in his own garb and armor when he stopped abruptly before a figure in his way.

Thor looked at him, grim, disappointment written in his eyes.

A distinct feeling of nakedness overtook Loki, though logically he knew that his magic still shaded him in Odin's visage, and he laughed: "I didn't realize that I wanted to see you, but my sleep-deprived brain must think otherwise."

"Loki," Thor said, "I don't know who you are. I cannot find you anymore, and I weary of searching." There was disgust in his voice.

"Thor," Loki told him, "I am the king you could not be when we were young, and the king you now refuse to be."

But he added with more sincerity, "That honor I died with, it was a lie, Thor, but no more so than anything else about me."

"Did Frigga mean nothing to you? My brother would have avenged her death, not slunk out of the battle like a coward. My mother was mistaken – her bond with you was never real."

Thor's eyes were bright and intense with restrained anger (and something else – it could not be grief, but it was like in Svartalfheim when he had held Loki); they scoured Loki's face, searching.

Loki looked down at his hands, and saw not his own pale, tapered fingers, but those of Odin, wrinkled, lined, heavy. Even if he were not wearing the illusion of Odin, his Aesir form would not be truth, but only masked the Jotun.

"Nothing about me is real. What is not truth does not exist in reality. Save your energy, and do not look for me, for I cannot be found."

A question rose to his mind, a question that had been evaded once before, and he desired to know the answer with an eagerness that surprised and displeased him. But he could not stop himself.

Without looking up, he asked, "Thor, did you mourn?"

Only prolonged silence met his query. Loki did not need to look to know that Thor was no longer there. He carried on his way, every footfall sinking with leaden gravity into the ground.

###################################################

"All-Father, have you been well?"

The question cut through Loki's thoughts. He wearily refocused them on the speaker. Sif stood several steps beneath him, regarding him with uncertainty, as if she understood that he knew something that she did not. An idea stirred within him.

"Lady Sif. Who are you?"

Sif knitted her eyebrows in some confusion and concern at the question.

"Surely you have known me from my earliest days, All-Father."

"The question is not exactly literal. What - who do you define yourself to be, what is your identity?"

Her answer came swift and certain, self-assured and brave.

"I am a warrior of Asgard, a friend, a servant, and I would defend home and family to the death. I tolerate no traitors."

Loki turned at the last statement.

"Indeed, Lady Sif?"

Something crossed Sif's mind, and her features sharpened but she was unafraid.

"All-Father, I violated your orders regarding the Dark Elves, and again I beg your pardon. You have been so good to release me and my friends. But know that I have always acted for the good of Asgard. You have now, and have always had my loyalty to the realm, my king."

She knelt, a genuine and ceremonial gesture to emphasize her words.

Loki regarded her

"I do not doubt your loyalty, Sif," he said, and he did not. He knew her loyalty lay with Asgard, and with Thor, for Sif both linked inextricably together. And unlike her, he could claim loyalty to neither man nor realm, for there was no one he had not betrayed, and no one who had not betrayed him. He had allowed Frigga to die, but she had lied to him his entire life.

The thought left him hollow. It was usual. Wherever he reached for meaning, it seemed to elude his grasp. The void within him left little room for fulfilment or meaning.

###################################################

Loki was standing where he had resolved never to visit. Odin lay before him, on his cocoon of a bed. Once, it had disturbed him to see his father so vulnerable and helpless, but those days had ended an age ago, and Odin was not his father. Now the sight elicited a chuckle from him, to know that the powerful All-Father was mired in an avoidable sleep. Sleep. Loki was giddy from the lack of it. With effort he held on to a single line of thought.

"It seems I can't stay away from you," Loki said, "Though you are always tossing me aside."

"You tried to take Frigga from me too, but there was no need. I would have lost her myself anyway," he added. He moved to the side of the bed, resting his palms on it and leaning over Odin.

"Were you glad when I fell like broken debris into the Void?"

"Was it easy to throw me away to be forgotten in the dungeons?"

"How did it feel when you thought my lifeless body had been found?"

"Was it relief at discarding a useless object each time? Was it?"

He was yelling now. His breaths came sharp and fast, dangerously close to hyperventilation.

The motionless form made no response, but Loki thought it was not much different from how Odin would react in life.

Loki took a moment to recollect himself. He smiled dryly at Odin's closed eye.

"The axe would have been kinder, All-Father, but I don't suppose you go in much for kindness anyway. Still, you should have killed me when you had the chance."

His plan had been to kill Odin, as he had slain Laufey. He could not explain why as he aimed Gungnir at Odin, his muscles had succumbed to paralysis in the moment when he should have delivered the finishing strike – and as he turned to leave, he had been shaking with anger at himself, vowing that he would not return until his determination was stronger.

He was here again. This time he had not even brought Gungnir with him.

(_When I am king, I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all! Just as you did, Father. _The voice of his brot- of child Thor came to him, a memory out of context, long-dusty and untouched.)

Is that it, he asked softly.

He could slay the monster where Thor and Odin had failed. He had tried before, he knew, with Jotunheim, hoping to gain their approval and regard. But this time, this time, would be for himself. It seemed there was nothing more to try. The throne was his, and still the restless pain of dissatisfaction, of emptiness, held his being.

"With any luck for either of us," Loki said to Odin, "I won't be here anymore when you return. I won't be the shadow on Asgard any longer."

He left. Experience had taught him that death was a gift that Fate liked to withhold from him. Loki needed to be certain this time, so he took one of his own knives and placed a spell on it stronger than he had ever used, even in combat, poisoning and sharpening it with his magic.

His fingers glided fondly over the blade, the physical contact recalling past battles where he had joined by Thor's side for Asgard and home and family, when he had imagined that he was rooted somewhere and that the enemy was something without to be destroyed and not within.

Somehow, the heavy exhaustion that ached in his muscles was gone.

It occurred to Loki that some vital part of his self had died when he fell, had been dying in the days leading up to that fall. Was that the part of him that had once held satisfaction?

The knife shimmered with the power imbued in it. The glow of his magic connoted warmth at the core of his cold, the sole light that comforted him in the days when he plummeted to an unknown realm and gave him the semblance of worth when other creatures had found him.

To turn his magic on himself seemed almost traitorous – but of course in the end, Loki betrayed everything, because whoever he was could maintain loyalty to nothing.


End file.
